


Anything At All

by CoffeeQuill



Series: Our Roots [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Fluff, Parenthood, Single Parents, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24299530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill
Summary: The kid is mouthing at the string of his jacket as he opens the fridge, letting out a demanding wail, and Din feels his headache throb. It’s mostly empty. He’s got rations in the cabinet, nothing the kid wants. He leans on the door, sighing.Then his eyes are starting to close.He just needs a few more minutes.-----Din and his kid are safe from Gideon, but the single parent gig doesn't get any easier.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: Our Roots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754920
Comments: 20
Kudos: 178





	Anything At All

**Author's Note:**

> A modern AU oneshot inspired by a discord convo (or, a picture of Pedro with a baby). The cuteness was too much, hence this creation. Enjoy!
> 
> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

He’d thought he was used to a lack of sleep. To go days of hunger, days of exhaustion, because not being able to might be what killed him. He hated it with every fiber of his being, but he managed. He stayed sharp, stayed focused, no matter how tired he was.

He was used to it.

Until he had a baby.

And now, what came before seems like nothing.

Adopting an orphan child wanted by scum like Gideon hadn’t been in his plans, much less one that had… _abilities._ But fleeing that safehouse with a toddler in his arms, bullets whizzing by his head until he’d been saved by his comrades, until he’d thrown himself into his car and slammed on the gas--

They’d escaped with a few more bullet holes in his door and been running for months.

But the kid had fucking _slept._

And now he’s decided that sleep is Enemy Number One.

Din jerks awake to the sound of wailing, high-pitched and familiar, and for a few seconds he can only stare at the nightstand. At first, he thinks the phone is ringing, and almost reaches a hand towards it before grabbing the edge of the table instead.

The shrill cries continue, and he slowly pushes himself up before staring down at his pillow. His head aches. His entire _body_ aches. Yesterday’s job put him through hell, slammed down and tackled and thrown around too many times to count. The latest wounds on his arm, shoulder and leg are stitched up, pulling as his muscles flex, a snappish and painful reminder of what he’s been through.

He shivers. There’s a chill in the house, and he’s only got a pair of sweatpants on before he passed out.

He takes a shaky breath, the screams for attention becoming clearer, and he swings his legs around on the bed. “I’m coming,” he calls again, shivering. He reaches for the duffel bag beneath the bag and fishes out a pair of socks, tugging them on.

His shoulder muscles are damn _tight,_ feeling every movement. His hair is too long, fluffed up in curls that he needs to cut before the cap presses it down into his eyes. He runs a hand through it, then stands. A zip-up sweatshirt is on the nearby chair, and he grabs it to throw on.

“I’m coming,” he calls again.

God, he’s feeling half dead.

They’re lucky to have this house -- a two-story cabin out in the woods, built low on a mountain, surrounded by trees and some trails. A vacation house for an old contact, used for game hunting trips, and non-use means it’s rented out as an Air BnB. But it’s isolated, and his truck was able to manage to ride up this high. Better that they’re here now -- snow has blanketed everything in the night.

He stumbles into the spare bedroom, converted now into _something_ like a nursery, a hand-me-down wooden crib against the wall with some toys scattered around the floor. The crying is so _loud,_ it’s grating.

Inside the crib is a squirming, screaming baby, wearing a green onesie and wrapped in brown blankets. Din sets his hand on the sides; the kid’s thumb is stuck into the corner of his mouth and he’s crying around it, kicking his legs to get free of the blankets.

“Hey,” Din mumbles, his voice hoarse as he reaches in and carefully lifts the baby. The tears lessen slightly, but still go strong, and Din sets him on his hip with gentle swaying. “You’re okay. Shh. You’re okay.”

The kid buries his face into Din’s side, the tears unrelenting.

_Hungry._

Din rubs his back as he walks out of the room and to the stairs. The balcony of the second floor overlooks the main part of the house, with couches and a fireplace, and he walks down. “Formula,” he mutters to himself. “Do we have -- shit.”

The kid is mouthing at the string of his jacket as he opens the fridge, letting out a demanding wail, and Din feels his headache throb. It’s mostly empty. He’s got rations in the cabinet, nothing the kid wants. He leans on the door, sighing.

Then his eyes are starting to close.

He just needs a few more minutes.

_Food._

Right. Food.

He reaches in and grabs the carton of milk -- nearly empty, but maybe enough. He sets it on the counter, then grabs the baby bottle to wash out. The kid’s cries quiet down as he watches. Then Din fills the bottles and sticks it in the microwave.

It comes out warm. The kid is quick to grab it up and start drinking. Din adjusts him, then looks around before he starts opening cabinets.

“That asshole’s gotta keep… something. Something -- hey.” He stops, looking up, then grabs a yellow and orange box out. “Cheerios.” He looks at the baby. “Kids like cheerios.”

The kid looks at him.

“You’ll like them.”

He fishes out a bowl for the cereal and the baby has calmed as he drinks, making no noise but for swallows and soft, muffled gurgles around the bottle’s nipple. Din takes the bowl and walks to the table, setting it down, then takes the bottle away. The kid makes immediate whines, reaching for it, but Din sets it down on the table. “Just a second,” he mutters, easing the baby down into the high chair.

It’s a shit excuse for a high chair.

He found it at a yard sale for a quarter of what a high chair should cost, and it’s held together by so much duct tape that he doesn’t even know how old it is.

But it’s _all he has._

The kid grabs for his bottle again, but his attention turns to the cereal and he gurgles, watching it with big eyes. Then he reaches out and carefully picks one up, staring at it, before he turns and looks at Din with those huge eyes.

“Whasabit?”

“It’s Cheerios,” Din says.

The kid stares at the piece before shoving his hand into his mouth. He stares at Din as he does it, then pulls it back and Din can hear him crunch down on it. His eyes drift before he looks at Din again with a surprised expression, reaching for more.

It isn’t long before the Cheerios become a mess on the chair’s tray, and the baby is a sticky mess of milk, spit and Cheerios, one piece stuck beside his mouth.

Din watches, then sighs and runs his hands over his face and through his hair. The kitchen clock reads _3:32 AM_ and it’s pitch black outside except for the house lights. When had he gotten in? Around one? The hired babysitter had been tired but woke right up when Din walked in, covered in blood and shoving a wad of green bills into her hands. She’d muttered a hasty _good night_ and practically fled.

And Din had showered. Stitched himself up. Promptly passed out.

The baby munches away on the Cheerios, and Din is anticipating the bath he’ll need. He leans down and rests his head on his arms, eyes closing.

Just a few minutes.

Just…

“Asushaaab!”

Din jerks up from the table, eyes flying open, and he has to force his vision to focus and blink a few times. He looks over and the baby is squirming in his seat, straining to get out. He looks at Din, tears threatening to boil over. “Da… Da!”

Din stares at him.

“Dada!” the kid whimpers. “Haaah!”

Din gets up and lifts the baby out, holding him to his chest, and the kid’s cheek squishes against his own. Two fingers are shoved into a mouth and the kid shoves his face against Din’s neck, head tucked beneath his jaw, and Din lets his eyes close as the kid settles in place.

With one hand, he rubs the child’s back, so tired he can barely think. He walks out of the kitchen and towards the couches. As he sits down, he feels the kid shiver and whimper.

He glances towards the fireplace. It’s empty, and the stored wood is in a can down in the basement. Instead, he lays on his back with a pillow behind, the kid still nestled in place, as he grabs a quilt off the back of the couch and drags it over them.

_Dada._

The kid squirms a bit, but is comfortable where he is, half on Din’s jacket and half on his bare chest. Din situates himself as well, then stares up at the ceiling and sets a hand on the baby’s back, rubbing slow circles until his own eyes close.

It’s not the first time the kid has called him that. But it hits him full force every time.

 _Dada_ turns into _Daddy_ and then into _Dad._

His hand shifts up, fingers brushing over fine strands of brown hair, becoming a mop of its own. They both need haircuts. He tilts his head to press his cheek against the boy’s head, eyes squeezed shut, before his hand drifts down to his back again.

The kid’s hand tightens, fingers lightly pressing at Din’s collarbone, loosening again. Din just stares at the ceiling, listening to his breathing, feeling his heart beat.

The best baby thing he owns is a single baby bottle for six bucks from Walmart.

Everything else can be a hand-me-down or the cheapest shit he can buy.

_“Do you think he cares that he’s not wearing brand made clothes?”_

Cara’s voice echoes in his mind and he sighs. No, the baby hasn’t seemed to give a damn that he’s got a single bottle or that his high chair is held together by tape. That his crib is worn and his toys are shit quality, or even that they move around so much. He doesn’t cry over it. He doesn’t demand _better._

He cries for his needs.

He cries to be fed and changed.

He cries for _Din_ to pay attention to him.

And he doesn’t smile for anyone else like he smiles for Din.

His hand still on the child’s back, sleep pulling at him like nothing else. He aches all over, his wounds throb, he nearly died -- _again_ \-- tonight. They need to eat. They need to live.

He’ll take a beating every fucking night if it means his kid is fed and warm and safe.

If it means he gets to watch him grow up.

Din presses a soft kiss to the side of his head.

_Anything for you._

He’s drifting off to sleep. The kid is fast asleep on his chest, everything is quiet. He surrenders to the darkness, the promise of rest.

_Anything at all._

**Author's Note:**

> The [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)


End file.
